


Blood, Leather and Griffin Shit

by FrenchKey



Series: Witcher DD Bingo 2021 [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Companionable Snark, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cutagens | Cute Effects of Mutagens (The Witcher), Described a bit but not graphically, Injury, M/M, Pet Names, Scent Marking, Scenting, Scents & Smells, Tracking, Worried Letho, fluffier than it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 10:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30020433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchKey/pseuds/FrenchKey
Summary: Letho has to hunt down an injured Gaetan and tend to his injuries.
Relationships: Gaetan/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet
Series: Witcher DD Bingo 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208384
Comments: 14
Kudos: 39





	Blood, Leather and Griffin Shit

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Witcher Dead Dove Bingo. I suspect this isn't entirely what was meant by the prompt 'Scent Marking' but it's what popped into my head. I blame Robin and Rawr for my love of Vipurr and cutagens. This really is abominably soft given the premise.
> 
> Thanks a million to dap for betaing and finding all my weird grammar errors.

Letho stomped down the road and slammed the door of the inn open. The place was relatively quiet since it was midday, but it still stunk of piss and spilled ale and other, even worse, scents. He stormed over to the bar and loomed over it, puffed himself up as much as possible and glared. The young woman behind the bar shrank back, her light floral scent going sharp and sour with fear. He bared his teeth in a grin and she whimpered. 

‘Where is he?’ he growled.

She stuttered out a couple of noises that were possibly trying to be words, but had only a passing acquaintance with the Common alphabet. She whimpered, shaking violently, then collapsed in a dead faint. Letho spat on the ground. Fucking useless. 

He stalked around the main room of the inn, nostrils flaring, desperately trying to catch the faintest hint of a scent. Even the burliest of the drunkards shrank from him. Several of them stood and fled the room entirely. He could hear them in the street hissing about mutant fuckers and kingslaying. He ignored them. They were unimportant. 

Finally, by the hearth, he caught something. A hint of leather and blood and griffin shit, all layering over that particular ozone smell that meant Witcher. He took a deep breath of it, dragging it into his lungs. It was old, at least a day, probably two. He wasn’t here any longer but Letho grinned. He had the scent. He’d find him. 

The trail took him out of the backwater hamlet and into the forest. He was moving in the opposite direction of the griffin’s corpse. Good. It would be starting to rot by now, the smell drawing every predator and scavenger in the area. Away was the right way to go. 

An hour or so into his march, he found a depression, pressed among the roots of a tall oak tree. It smelled strongly of the blood-leather-shit-ozone Witcher scent. The blood scent was stronger now and Letho sniffed around, finding a few drops of dried blood on the roots. They were closer to black than the expected rusty brown and they smelled of the sweet rot that was caused by Witcher potions. Letho hissed. His quarry was injured. 

He moved on, sniffing and snorting, head weaving back and forward. This far from civilisation, he indulged his mutated instincts, letting his mouth fall open and flicking his tongue out to taste the air. The scents of the forest surrounded him, but right at the back of his tongue he could feel the ozone Witcher scent. He followed it on at a trot. He could also taste the impending rain. It was hours away yet, but he didn’t know how far he had still to travel and he didn’t want to lose the trail. 

The forest grew deeper and darker. The light that filtered through the tree canopy was washed out and tinged with green. Grasping branches snagged his armour and gnarled roots seemed to spring from nowhere to embrace his feet. Still, he ran on, in a ground eating lope that he could keep up for days if necessary. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. The blood scent never left but it ebbed and flowed like waves crashing onto rocks, sometimes filling his nose and mouth until it was all he could smell and sometimes fading so that he had to strain to catch it. 

Eventually, the scent he was following grew strong enough to eclipse the earthy green smells of his surroundings and he knew he was getting close. He pushed his body into a true run, one that would cover the distance as fast as possible. He leapt over roots and hissed when he had to turn from his path to avoid dense underbrush. 

A ruin loomed up at him out of the trees. The stone walls were crumbling, being slowly reclaimed by the ivy creeping up the sides. Small plants had dug in their roots and were flourishing in the dirt between the stones. The scent trail went up and over one wall, where Letho could see flattened grass and broken stems. He ran and vaulted the wall in the same place. He landed lightly on the other side and immediately spotted the Witcher huddled under the far wall. He was using the remaining half of the roof for shelter and had started to build a fire, but hadn’t quite finished before he’d had to stop and rest. He’d fallen asleep like that, propped up on his pack, swords still strapped to his back. The blood scent was thick, but not too fresh. Whatever wounds he had were healing, if slowly. 

Letho stepped forward, deliberately heavy and snapping sticks beneath his boot. He’d only made the mistake of moving silently once. The knife scar on his abdomen was a permanent reminder not to do it again. As he took his second step, one amber eye slit open. 

‘You’ve got yourself in a right pickle here, haven’t you Moggy?’ Letho said. 

Gaetan hissed at him without bothering to get up, or even open his eyes properly. Letho chuckled and made his way over. 

‘You still bleeding?’ he asked.

‘No, stopped,’ Gaetan rumbled, his usually sweet voice gone deep with pain. 

Letho nodded and briefly passed a gentle hand across Gaetan’s shaved head. He set about making a proper camp for them. First he built up the fire with the rest of the wood Gaetan had gathered and then abandoned. Once it was burning merrily, he collected handfuls of ferns to create a makeshift mattress he could lay their bedrolls on. He didn’t bother with pretence, simply laid them out side-by-side to make one big sleeping area. After the fright he’d gotten, he had no intention of letting Gaetan out of his reach. He collected water from a nearby stream and set a quick stew to cooking. Then, he turned to Gaetan.

‘Right. Get your kit off,’ he said, staring down at the Cat.

Gaetan hissed again and didn’t move. 

‘Either you do it, or I’ll do it for you. I want to see how badly you’re hurt. I followed the smell of your blood all the way here from that wreck of an inn.’

When Gaetan still didn’t move, Letho made good on his threat. He sat himself in the grass next to Gaetan and began removing his armour. He started by unstrapping the swords, then the gloves. He worked his way up, gently teasing buckles and ties, not hurrying or pulling frantically. He uncovered a spectacular patchwork of bruises and a few shallow cuts. It wasn’t until he had Gaetan down to his smalls that he found the culprit of the blood smell. A talon had caught him just above the left hip, scoring a deep line down the outside of his thigh, right to the knee. The bleeding had stopped by virtue of a vial of Kiss, but it was still wide open and angry red. Letho hissed. Griffins were bastards to fight and their claws were horribly serrated, so the flesh was torn and ragged. It was going to need cleaning and stitching. 

He set about doing what needed doing, hushing Gaetan when he hissed and spat and clawed at him. Sometimes he whimpered and Letho had to set his jaw and carry on anyway. His anger was always easier to weather than his pain. Finally, he was done and Gaetan’s thigh was swaddled in a thick protective bandage. Letho lifted him and carried him to the bedrolls. 

‘You smell like worry and sadness,’ Gaetan grumbled.

‘And you smell like blood,’ Letho shot back.

‘Want to fix that?’ Gaetan waggled his eyebrows. It looked ridiculous and Letho snorted at him.

‘I’ve just sewn you up,’ he said, ‘I’m not doing it again just so you can get your rocks off.’

Gaetan pouted, but Letho wouldn’t be swayed. He stripped off his own armour, setting his swords nearby and leaving a dagger or two in easy reach of Gaetan. Then, he crawled under the blankets and wrapped himself around the lithe form of his love. Gaetan purred at the warmth and rubbed the top of his head under Letho’s chin. 

‘There,’ he murmured into the rapidly encroaching darkness, ‘Now you smell like me.’

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please toss a comment or a kudos my way?


End file.
